“I am gonna grow my hair long, real long, and wear it like a hat MADE of hair. You know, twirly. Mr Whippy-head.” ~ Sleep Talkin’ Man (Mr Whippy=soft ice cream served out of a big white van in England. Brits are weird.)
“It’s time to don our cow masks and scare the salad out of her. I love Veggieween.” ~ Sleep Talkin’ Man
“All I want out of life is ice cream and cuddles. Is it too much to ask? Is it?” ~ Sleep Talkin’ Man
* Just a refresher, Sleep Talkin’ Man” is a website that recounts the night-time conversations of Adam (aka Sleep Talkin’ Man) when he’s asleep.
I hadn’t planned on talking about this, but some things are too good to keep to myself.
Last night, I was doing my best to build a pen for Doc. I was wrestling with wire and posts and pliers. It was like World War III had begun, let me tell ya. I should also probably mention that this fence-building extravaganza is occurring in a trailer park.
As I was mumbling and muttering like a half-crazed woman over my fencing project, a man came up. He had on the short-shorts special with a muscle tank showcasing his beer belly. He introduced himself. *Of course.* So I said hi, and he said he’d just moved here and it looked like I was too and, man, wouldn’t we be the best of friends? I have a terrible time with names. Zero luck with remembering them. I think he might have said “Chip”. Actually it was probably Jim or Donnie, but it’s too late – he’s Chip in my brain.
So I got the niceties out of the way and sent him on his doddering little way, and I went back to my work. Not 10 minutes later, a yellow lab lumbered up to me. I glanced up and there, in all his glorious tattoo-ness was…whatever he said his name was. I don’t have the slightest clue though his dog’s name is Joker. Fact. He had on those really cool mirrored sunglasses that wrap around the head. I could have flossed my teeth in their reflection. But I didn’t. I shook hands and said some crap about how if my dog ever caused problems to just let me know. I totally didn’t mean it, but I thought it sounded good.
We stood there a bit, shooting the bull, the whole while I’m trying to remember his name and then giving up. Finally I get him sent on his merry way, too, and I go BACK to what I had originally hoped to be done with.
Hour later
The wire kicked my butt. It’s just true. I was getting almighty cranky when Chip came wandering back over. He must have been watching me struggle from his window, because he asked if he might be able to help me or at least hold something. By the way, he had donned a different pair of short shorts and a different “I’ve-got-a-big-beer-belly” tank. Whoa, killer wardrobe. I thanked him, and maybe if he hadn’t had an eerie resemblance to what I’ve always assumed serial killers look like, I may have even said he could get the big job of holding the wire in place. But instead, I politely yet firmly sent him on his way AGAIN.
I can see Chip is going to be ongoing saga. So is Tattoo Man, I think. Not to mention, the folks on the other side are hitting on the top side of the pot scale if my snozzle isn’t playing tricks on me.
Welcome to the t’hood, yo, let the blog fodder begin!
Either something is medically wrong with me (an option I am not willing to entertain and, should it be true, will likely choose to ignore as long as possible) or I have inexplicably become a huge klutz overnight. I can’t hardly breathe without something crashing to pieces around me. Evidence presented below:
I was moving a picture yesterday. I dropped it on my big toe and while I was dutifully aware of the pain and limping to offset it, it took me 10 minutes to realize I was gushing blood. Said gushing blood was all over the living room floor. Awesome. Now I can’t wear shoes which makes me look like a homeless person in very nice pants.
I nearly* biffed it THREE times in the process of walking up and down a tiny flight of stairs. One would think by the second or third trip up the stairs, one would have a firm grasp of how many were there. One would think.
I have a huge gash on my hand. It used to be a huge gash. Now it’s just ugly and scabbed over. Unfortunately, when people ask me what happened, I can’t tell them. I have zero recollection of getting cut although – apparently – I did. I’m not sure how to handle being a klutz. I’m even less sure about how to handle not knowing when I’m being a klutz.
While I do believe I know the source of this one, my forearm has been swelled up the last four days. While it’s gone down some, there’s still a nasty knot protruding at a perpendicular angle. I tell people it’s my third alien arm hatching.
Like Kermit the Frog said, “It’s not easy being green.”
That really isn’t applicable here. Scratch that from the record.
These song parodies of well-known tunes made me laugh on a day where I don’t think much else could have. I have no idea who sings them or what the lyrics are, but they’re all about food or kitchen items.
Blue Suede Booze
Corn in the USA
Twist and Sprout
Fishstick on Your Collar
Hey Food
All You Need is Lunch
Cough Drops Keep Falling On My Head
Annie Get Your Gum
Don’t Go Baking My Tart
Pudding on the Ritz
Another One Bites the Crust
Baby I Need Your Oven
Wok On By
What Have I Done to Preserve This?
Stand By Your Pan
Keep the Home Fries Burning
Are you laughing yet? I mean, come on, how can you not? Even just for because?
Last night, I accidentally* punched myself in the face with my boxing glove.
This morning, I woke up with blood-encrusted teeth…yum.
An hour ago, I discovered that I’ve had a credit card for five years. I didn’t know the account existed; I don’t even have the piece of plastic!
This is my life. My brilliant, wonderful, amazingly awe-inspiring life.
* Of COURSE it was an accident. That word is absolutely unessential, because who in their right mind would punch themselves in the face? Fine, so the jury is still out on whether my mind is fully functional and in the right place, but this is America. Innocent until proven guilty, baby!
There are some things you just can’t help but notice. Yesterday, a man eased to a stop as I was walking down the road with my dastardly wonderful teenage puppy. I was standing fairly close to the vehicle as it was windy and hard to hear. Right there, smack dab, holy-wow-this-is-prominent, was a calendar that I can only describe as a member of the pin-up style of calendars. Folks, what the July model was wearing was not what I would call a bathing suit. At all. I couldn’t even begin to imagine that it might have been a bathing suit before someone got crazy with the scissors and cut 99% of it away.
Why do you need a pin-up calendar on the dash of your vehicle? Wait…I don’t want to know. I’m going to stop now, because this is teetering dangerously close to the edge of AWKWARD.
By the way, it is illegal to talk or text on cell phones and drive in the state of Washington. Which means, you know, yes…besides, he was also drinking a beer. It’s because of people like him that we can’t have nice things.
